At first I worry it’s because I took a really long break to get the fixative, because maybe Bodie didn’t cover for me well. But Carly’s eyes are lined with super thick black liner and dark shadow. I’ve pulled that trick before, so I know it’s not always a fashion statement so much as a way to cover up dark circles and puffy lids. When I don’t let myself get distracted by all that black, I can see how red her eyes are.

“Stop staring,” she says, and opens her mouth all slack-jawed and dopey like she’s saying I look like that.

She’s almost always nice to me. It’s been her and me against the spoiled kids. But this is one of those moments that gets me feeling shaky and teary and embarrassed even though it shouldn’t. I’ve handled worse. Why would it matter for Carly to look at me funny? I turn away and distract myself by wiping down the espresso machine, which keeps me busy enough, because I’m the only one who ever bothers to do it.

After lunch, the phone rings and it’s some girl for Carly. She says her name is Rosemary and instead of letting me take a message, she says she’ll hold while I get Carly, as if we have one of those fancy phones with a hold button and I won’t be balancing the receiver in an empty coffee cup.

I go outside to look for Carly. She’s crouched against the wall, perched on the toes of her combat boots, sucking at her cigarette like it’s a lifeline, spitting smoke into the air with force. Icicles from the overhang drip on her like rain and that raccoon makeup is streaming down her face. Her tights are ripped. With Carly, you never know if she wanted her tights like that or it happened by accident, but something about her ripped tights makes her look extra sad.

“Phone,” I say, trying hard not to stare, pressing my lips together as soon as I get the word out.

Carly holds her cigarette in her teeth and wipes her cheeks with both hands, smearing black all the way to her ears. “Who is it?”

“Rosemary.”

“I don’t want to talk to her,” Carly says, her words garbled by a sob. She tries to stand, but her foot slips and she falls to her knees on the icy gravel.

I run over and wrap my arms around her so immediately that it shocks me. “Okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

She cries into my shoulder. I help her stand. Her knee is scraped up, bloody.

“I’ll go get the first aid kit,” I say.

“They can’t see me like this.” She tips her head toward the kitchen door. “It’s hard enough.”